Like Grains of Sand
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Alfred and Matthew grow up on opposite sides of the ocean, after their parents' divorce. Each stumbles across their own obstacles - from newly formed bad habits to fights that go way out of hand. FrUk, many pairings, coming-of-age. FACE family
1. Train Tracks

**1**

 **Train Tracks**

Maybe it was that vase's fault.

Alfred pictured it, in its voluptuous figure, its pear-like, purple body, its coupling of three fake flowers or one real one. He remembered what it sounded like when it broke. He had been in bed, drawing on his arms with a washable marker - his parents wouldn't allow him to use pen - when he heard a voice shoot up. It felt like the thudding of a gong. That yell, that sharp snap, that vibration that shook the house from base to top. Followed afterwards was a mumbled argument. A louder sound erupted. Alfred felt the argument beneath his floor, beneath his green rug and his scattered papers. For some reason he had the need to turn off his lamp, the snake half-drawn on his arm, its bodiless head staring at him.

The second voice evolved from a patient banter to a rising yell. Alfred curled up in bed, closing his eyes. He willed it all away. He willed it to be seven years back, when he was just five and his brother was four, and they were toted across parks and given ice cream. Everything seemed to go wrong when Alfred had turned twelve. The fights start becoming less of a row and more of a duel.

"Take it with you!" Alfred heard.

"It's _yours._ " Came the beg.

"Well not anymore."

There was a moment of silence. As if, by falling, the vase had sapped the sound from the world. It fell for aeons, it felt like. And then it snapped. A dull crack, a _booof,_ followed by a clatter of broken clay. It had fallen on carpet and fanned out to the wooden floor.

Silence.

Then, thudding up the stairs. Alfred peered through the diabolic grin his door split open into the hallway, light slipping into his room, cutting across the shape of his body under his blankets.

In the hallway he saw his father, Francis, standing frigid in the doorway. He couldn't see his face. He jerked away when his Dad, Arthur, brushed past him, thundering. He could practically see the fumes of smoke churning in his features.

Arthur turned to stare in Alfred's room. Pain washed over his face.

Alfred felt the image burn permanently into his memory. The way Arthur stood in the doorway's sneer, the wetness on his cheeks, the way his fingers moved in and out of a fist.

Then the way he turned into the other room. Whispers rose like fog on a lake. Francis walked into Alfred's room, slowly, his lips pressed together. The door's smile ripped open, into the dusty yellow light from the hallway, Francis' lanky figure cutting shadows into Alfred's room. He walked closer and kneeled by Alfred.

"I know you're awake. You can open your eyes."

Alfred had shut his eyes. He was too afraid to cry.

He felt a warm hand on his forehead.

"Come on."

Alfred looked at him, in time to see his younger brother, Matthew, stumble sleepily and tearily behind Arthur, his hand enveloped in Arthur's.

"Where are they going?" Alfred asked.

Francis shook his head.

"Where are they going?" Alfred demanded hotly when Francis remained silent.

"Listen."

Alfred began to protest. He heard the door open and shut. He sat up in bed. Scrambled to the window pane. Felt pain.

"Where are they going?"

The mantra pounded away in his head like the beating of a drum, over and over, a war drum calling the soldiers of comprehension into the battle of confusion. Francis walked up behind him.

"Wait." Francis said.

Arthur's car pulled out of the driveway, its lights fanning out into the driveway, mingling with the deep orange lamplights. In another minute it was gone, out of their neighbourhood.

Alfred stared.

"But…"

Francis sighed. "Alfred."

Alfred wanted him to say that everything will be ok, that everything is just perfectly fine, that the world will keep spinning and soon enough, after enough rotations and after the sun had gone up and down a couple more times, Arthur would come back. The vase would fly in reverse, collect its broken pieces back together: no cracks, no strains, and it would be on the coffee table all over again. That the world would be fine, at peace, and that in a couple dream hours, Alfred would wake up and smell pancakes and hear his parents laughing.

Instead, Francis said "Things aren't well right now."

Alfred sat back down on his bed, staring at the half-finished drawing of a snake.

Francis sat besides him.

"We've had a lot of fights lately, your Dad and I."

"I know."

"And fights can sometimes end badly, as you know. I didn't think things would go like this. But I'll explain that someday. Just know that things are hard right now and soon, really soon hopefully, we'll be back on our feet and things will feel normal again. Granted, 'normal' will be a different normal, a new normal, a change of scenery."

The house felt silent, gutted.

"Will I see Dad? Or Matthew?" Alfred asked, still tingly with shock.

"I think so. I don't know anything right now, except that I am tired and that Arthur didn't lock the door… He never locks the door." Francis' voice sagged with pained love.

Alfred watched him leave, shutting the door.

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Go to sleep, Alfred. We'll talk about it again when our emotions aren't so intense."

Alfred nodded, even though Francis couldn't see him, and lay down.

Nightmares.

. . .

"Never locks the door." Francis muttered, locking it. The driveway sat in loneliness.

. . .

"Where are we going, Papa?" Matthew asked, staring out the window. Streetlights flitted past the window, like glowing moths fluttering past.

"Home." Arthur said.

"But we just left home? Are we going in a circle?"

"No."

"But —!"

"Matthew."

Matthew said nothing. Arthur looked in the rearview mirror. The steers were empty at this hour. Arthur gripped the steering wheel. His heart hurt.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Are you cold back there?"

"A little…"

"Wrap up in your blanket." Arthur said, "It's ok. No one is here to mock you for it."

Matthew picked up his striped blanket, one that if his classmates knew existed he would be strung up for, and wrapped himself in it, tugging his knees to his chest, and sitting by his lonesome in the backstreet.

They drove in silence. Matthew wondered if there was nothing to say or if there was too much to say. Arthur drove so not to rock the car, lest Matthew have fallen asleep.

Matthew didn't.

There were many things Matthew didn't do for a long time.

. . .

Maybe it _was_ the vase.

Maybe if it had fallen, or been pushed, or have been knocked over, everything could have remained intact. Or, if Arthur and Francis got back together and glued all the shattered pieces back together, they would be back together.

Back together…

Alfred sat on the staircase, looking at the last few crumbs of thick purple scattered around the table's legs. Francis had put the larger shards in a plastic bag, forbidding Alfred to come near. Francis walked back to it with a vacuum, cleaning up the final bits of debris.

"Are you gonna throw it out?"

Francis had the bag of shattered realities in his hand, several purple spikes attempting to poke out from the bottom. The dead flowers sat on the table, homeless. Francis looked down at the two items, now separated, and appeared to get lost in his mind.

"No. Not yet."

The bag went into a closet, into the furthest corner. Out of sight, out of mind: but still there and not in some stranger's truck riding to a compost site.

. . .

When Alfred had gone to school and Francis had gone to work, Arthur came back to their house. He stood in the doorway, staring at the now empty table, at the kitchen that smelled of lilacs, and of home.

"Take what you want, Matthew." Arthur said quietly. Matthew went upstairs. He wanted to take Alfred, but Alfred wasn't there.

Arthur began packing his things. He made the calls, he got the airplane tickets, and now he needed his things. The pain was real and hanging like curtains. It surrounded the home in its dense aura. He didn't want to go into the bedroom and takes his clothes, but he had to. He had to rip off the bandage. He had to go.

Legalities and moralities aside, Arthur knew he was making a mistake. He knew that Matthew would have his own set of troubles in London, a place he went only once and had little desire to go back to.

There was a sigh escaping Arthur's lips, as if that would seal fate like a licked envelope.

The train had begun chugging along, leaving one world behind for another. The path was chosen. It could have been Alfred who went with Arthur, it could have been one choice. But the tracks were set and the engine whistled.

* * *

 _I do not own Hetalia_

 _I wonder if anyone still uses this site, to be honest. But this story had to come out._


	2. Aaah!

**2**

 **Aaah! The Great Big World is Scary! But That's Alright**

Twelve should be the unlucky number, not thirteen. Alfred thought this, over and over, sitting at a bus station as rain wailed down at him. As if the sky, too, needed someone to attack. His boots were caked with mud that couldn't dry, his hair was taped to his face and becoming steadily ubiquitous with the tears stubbornly forming in his eyes.

Everything had gone wrong the year he had to endure being an almost-teenager. His grades were dropping needlessly, as he couldn't see the board and incessantly thought 2s were Ss, or Zs were Ts, because he wouldn't wear glasses. Glasses were _not_ cool. He wouldn't be caught dead with the blocky, but classy, pair that he and Francis had picked out.

Putting them on, it felt like he had stepped out of a hazy fog and into a clear field. The world brightened. Colours were vivid, sharp. He smiled brightly at Francis, the best he could, and he felt that some of his emotional baggage had departed.

Then he thought about school. He thought about how many times people had said he had nice, pretty blue eyes. Eyes cut from crystal, aquamarine or a clear one held up to the sky. He wouldn't get that if they were caged behind a thick window pane.

Francis noticed that he would pocket his glasses the second he walked out of his car and into the school.

The next bad thing was when his visited the orthodontist. Alfred lay back in the chair, looking up at the man who asked him senseless questions he couldn't answer, due to the various items lodged down his throat.

"How's school, son?" The doctor asked, peering around Alfred's small mouth.

"Ok eh grf."

"Excellent!" A laugh. Alfred squinted at the light beaming down on to his face. He should have worn his glasses. "Have you been brushing? Flossing?"

"Yeah shr."

"Hmmmm?" He hummed for an eternity, his blond eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

He was _that_ sort of man. One who regularly rock climbed, whose blond hair wouldn't grey for a suspiciously long time, one who laughed to often and not naturally enough. Alfred thought all of this with rising bitterness, bitterness like a squished, rotten apple lodged in his throat.

Alfred smiled sheepishly.

After several more minutes of exploring and mumbling numbers to his assistant, the doctor sat back. He patted Alfred's shoulder as his seat came back up. Alfred ran his tongue across his teeth, feeling overexposed from constant probing. Like his mouth was some strange alien creature and the doctor had _never_ seen anything like it. The doctor smiled his million dollar smile, painfully white and unnaturally straight.

Alfred really didn't like straight teeth. They lacked personality.

"How old are you?"

It's on the papers you looked through, Alfred thought, but sprung a grin instead. "Twelve. I'll be thirteen in a couple months."

"When's your birthday, son?"

"July fourth."

"Oh! Just like our great country."

"Those fireworks are just for me." Alfred managed his best, I'm a good lil kid aren't I? facial expression.

The doctor laughed. "I bet!"

Alfred nodded. So, what was the bad news?

The doctor paused. Alfred didn't say anything.

"Well, it's time you got your shiny teeth straightened up."

"Oh." Alfred managed.

He knew what that meant. He had seen Laura, a girl who had braces so thick it was like the barb wire soldiers go through during training. She spat when she talked. Alfred did not want to be another Laura.

He had seen Miles wear clear braces with dainty white squares on each tooth. They looked fine, but for some reason were labelled as "gay". Alfred wasn't sure why, exactly. Maybe he could get one of those.

Another thought hit him, all of them going light-speed, like colliding comets across the nebula of his mind. His father didn't have that sort of money lying around. Half of their insurance went with his Dad, back to England. The thought poked him like an icepick in the heart.

He didn't care, suddenly, if he spat when he talked or if his cheeks would be scratched raw from the wires.

"Braces?" Alfred asked after what felt like a year, but really was only a couple of thoughtful seconds.

"I'm afraid so…" Then he went into the details that Alfred had just ruminated over.

Francis was called in. They discussed.

The next week Alfred would get them put in.

Alfred remembered all of this, still at the bus stop, still feeling the chunky metal in his mouth. His glasses had become as cloudy as a foggy mirror. He pulled them off and miserably smudged them further with his jacket sleeve.

Of course, if he had known at the time that getting braces was only the appetiser to the troubles this thick-bodied, still short for the meantime twelve year old, he wouldn't have even considered a drop of sadness to drag across his mind.

The worst came when the fall rolled by, bringing along rain like fists pounding into the dirt. A week and three days before Alfred would be sobbing at a bus stop, wondering what he had done to deserve this. Thinking of that vase. That stupid vase.

He began to revise the reason he was even there, like a kicked and dumped puppy. Then he realised he was only twelve years old. He was like a pebble trying to argue against the mountain that rests upon its back. Everything was too vast, too big, and too scary to even consider. To even look up. To even feel the pressure of without snapping into a billion little pieces. Another vase in its infinite parabola to the floor.

The first rain had began to tap on the windows, like hungry strangers. Miss Dew looked out the window, watching it begin to fall. She stood at the front of their health class - mandatory for all middle schoolers - and sighed. Her hair was dark and collected into a curly bun on the top of her head. A group of girls sat in front of the class, giggling about something. Miss Dew had a habit of going silent for a stretch of moments at a time.

Alfred liked it. She was his favourite teacher. If and only if she had reached out to him and talked to him when she noticed the ebbing sunlight in his eyes. He liked when she spaced out, staring out into the rainy world.

"Looks like we're in for another endless downpour." Miss Dew said.

The class looked up at her, nodding mutely. She seemed to space out even more often than lately, usually with a happy smile on her face. Now, that smile grew bigger.

"I have news." She said. "As you know, my dream has been to help. To help underprivileged youth, to be exact."

 _No_

Alfred bit his lip. He felt another thing was going wrong. He couldn't. It couldn't - no, it really _wouldn't._ All the nots, all the No's. They surmounted to nothing. They gathered into a vapid pile of unending sadness. Sadness that seemed, to him, finite and inevitable. And, more than anything, _his_ fault.

. . .

The rain stopped. Alfred dug his face further between his knees.

"Alfred."

He didn't look up. His fingernails chewed his palms, threatening to draw blood had they had enough commitment.

"Alfred." Francis said sharply.

Alfred raised his head slowly. looking up into the underside of an umbrella. The plunk-plunk-plunk of captured rain filled the silence Francis made. Alfred rubbed his reddish eyes.

"Come on, time to go home."

Alfred stood up.

Francis held out his hand.

"Come on."

Alfred didn't take it, but followed behind him. His hair fell into his eyes and stayed there. He dug his hands into his pockets, following with his head down as if he had been forced to go home. Francis paused every few steps to check that Alfred hadn't been soaked through with rain.

"We need to talk." Francis said simply.

Alfred didn't argue.

. . . . . .

After a long, steamy shower in which Alfred sat on the bath tub floor and let the water wash out the mud and dirty rainwater, he went to the kitchen. Francis had set up a small meal of fruits and cheeses. Things Alfred liked but wasn't in the mood for. He sat down across from Francis, in a white t-shirt and striped shorts. Francis took a sip of hot tea. The steam curled up over his face and through his tawny beard.

Alfred picked at a grape, rolling it between his fingers. He stared outside, wondering how long he would have needed to stay outside in order to freeze to death.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

Francis watched him earnestly.

"Miss Dew was your favourite teacher."

Alfred shrugged. "I guess."

"And she has moved on to better things."

Alfred propped up his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm. He stared outwards, towards nothing. The thoughts that once congested his head moved around sluggishly, as if they were tired of going in circles. He was too. Another thought to his misery and he felt like he would puke. And here was his father, ready to prod those tired ideas yet again.

"I don't…" want to talk about it. Alfred didn't say the last part.

"You don't?" Francis looked at him.

Alfred said nothing.

"It happens. People come and go. That's the nature of living things. They're here, then the aren't. The only constant in your life is you, Alfred."

Alfred picked at the side of his thumb. A shard of skin poked up like peeling paint.

"Although, that's happened a lot for you in too short of a time." Francis continued. "So much has happened. I understand you want to get this all out some way, somehow. But you shouldn't go missing and wait for a bus that you _know_ isn't going to show up."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to see a therapist?"

"I'm not insane, dad." Alfred said.

"I never said you were."

"Then why should I go there? That's where you send people when you don't want to deal with them yourself."

Francis sighed.

"I'm asking you, not forcing you. What do you want?"

Alfred scrunched up his face. He didn't want to cry again. He would not cry. No tears, not right now.

"I keep thinking that… That they'll be back next week or something. That they went on a trip and in a few days they'll show up, laughing, and giving us souvenirs or something. And I keep thinking that Miss Dew will come back and say it was all a joke, or that she missed us too much to leave. Or that her plane there will crash and she'll be forced to come back. I want everything back to the way it was. I can't stand this change."

"I keep thinking that, too."

Francis turned away from him. Alfred watched a couple hairs slide out from behind his ear and towards his cheek. His long fingers remained clamped around his cup of tea.

. . . . .

 **A list to keep in mind:**

"Does the music bother you?"

"No, ma'am."

 **Everything is temporary.**

"My name is Mrs. Yeats. Like the poet."

"The poet…?"

"Well, you'll read him eventually. Unless you want to hear my favourite line from him?"

"Sure."

 **B) Everything can be good and bad. Like the sides of a coin.**

Mrs. Yeats picked up a book from her desk and turned to Alfred, flipping to a dog-eared page. She cleared her throat, as if preparing for a glorious speech. Alfred was slightly taken aback when it was only one line.

 **C) You will be sad, you will cry.**

" _Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams._ "

Mrs. Yeats smiled.

 **D) And that is OK.**

"Oh." Alfred said. He felt the climax was not proportional with the pay off.

Mrs. Yeats laughed. "I know, pretty anticlimactic, isn't it? Well, maybe one day you'll realise that it means quite a lot. Or maybe you won't. That's fine, too. All our minds operate so differently. It's _fascinating._ Isn't it?"

"I guess."

She put the book back and faced him. She was an older woman, with hair dyed burgundy and piled on to her head with a hefty dose of hairspray. She had a square face and dry, red lips. The music behind her was some ode to someone or other, a half-hearted love ballad. Alfred decided it would go under the file of Stupid Pop Music that I will Never Ever EVER Like.

Alfred pressed his palms to his seat, tucked under his thighs. He swung his legs, looking down at them. His shoes were scuffed. He thought that made him look real tough. His hair, too, was parted to the side for the cool kid look. He hoped it distracted from his braces and his obnoxious glasses that Francis asked him, firmly yet softly, to just wear them.

"How was your day?" She asked.

"Fine."

"You know, you can tell me honestly here. I, unlike most of people who pose that question, would actually like to know how you're feeling."

"I'm fine." Alfred repeated. "I had a breakfast and then dad and I went to the store to get some food, and then I came here."

"I see. And your week?"

"Just school and stuff."

"Friends?"

"Yes."

"No, honey, how are they?"

"Fine, I guess. Jordan got a new leather jacket he wears around everywhere, just to make us jealous. Well, I think it makes him look like he's in one of those bags old women have. It doesn't look tough - you know?"

Mrs. Yeats smiled. She had an uncanny, airy smile. Alfred wondered whether or not he could trust it.

"Your father?"

"He's ok."

She had posters along her walls, of varying colours and themes. One was called "Aaah! The Great Big World is Scary! But That's Alright." And it had a list, A-D that Alfred committed to memory.

"I hear your parents are divorced."

"Yeah."

"How's your mother?" Mrs. Yeats asked gently.

"I don't have one."

"Dear, you can't deny her existence just because she isn't there."

Alfred felt insult. That sting, that burn he felt everywhere he went. That same prickling of anger when anyone called him a fag-child, or a homo-kid, or a gayby. Whatever dumb insult middle school could come up with.

"I _do not_ have a mother, Mrs Yeats." He repeated.

She frowned.

"Did you even read that paper my dad gave you?" Alfred said bitterly.

"Yes all it said was — oh." She stopped. "I'm sorry. We all make mistakes, now, don't we?"

"I guess so."

. . .

On the drive home, Alfred picked at his thumb again.

"I like the posters she has."

"Good." Francis said.

"I don't like her."

"Do you never want to go back?"

"Please."

"We can find a better one?"

Alfred gave his father a look of sadness that encased everything he felt.

Francis reached over and tussled his hair. "That's ok. We won't."

"Thanks."

. . .

"Everything will be OK." Alfred said to himself, staring up at his ceiling. "OK for someone, at least."


	3. Forest Nook

**3**

 **Forest Nook**

Matthew picked his way through the marshes. His sneakers steadily dampened with mud, and he was certain he had seen several creatures that were leftovers from before animals crawled to land and grew legs. He shivered, wanting desperately to go back home to Arthur.

Arthur had urged him to take a walk through the town and maybe find some children in the nook of the woods where they apparently congealed.

"Spent part of my youth here, Matt. I doubt it could have changed so much in a couple years." He had said.

Matthew, feeling pangs of loneliness shatter over him like waves, agreed. Had Alfred been here he would have laughed at him for being squeamish at the little mud insects, and told him to toughen up, kid. All in his best movie star accent he could muster.

There was no Alfred. There was only Matthew, a kid who grew up in the suburbs of America where strangers trimmed your grass for you and there were more days of sunshine than rain. Matthew didn't dare complain.

He eventually found the nook where the imaginary friends of Arthur's past had gathered. He half expected to find ghosts, and the other half expected to find no one. In either case he could wander more and then come home with a mouthful of lies.

Instead, he found a group of boys guffawing and play-fighting. Matthew inched closer, wide eyed and curious. His steps were quiet, in case these were the bull dogs of the school he would attend in the next week. Then they'd already have a reason to beat him up. At least, that's what happened in movies, right?

"Hey."

Matthew stopped, his blood stopping in his veins. He was _sure_ his circulation was that of a frozen plumbing system.

"Hi." He said.

The kid who called up to him was lanky and pale. His skin was nearly translucent, as was his, no joke, white-white hair. Matthew came closer.

"I'm not going to bite you." He had some sort of accent. "What's your name?"

Matthew now stood in front of him. He was his height. Matthew had been a bit of a taller child, more so than even Alfred. He tried to make himself smaller by bunching up his shoulders and receding into his shyness. The stranger looked at him. At his side were two other boys. One with tightly curled black hair, like oiled coils. The other was even smaller than the rest, with a splattering of freckles across his face and straw-coloured hair, not totally unlike Matthew's dad.

"M—" Matthew stopped. It felt like his name was snared in his throat.

"M..?" The boy grinned. His teeth were slightly crooked.

"M— M—"

"We got a stammerer!" The blond boy howled with laughter.

The pale one shot him a look.

"Mark?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Mason?"

"M—M—Matthew." He eventually spat out.

"There you go. I'm Gilbert."

Matthew smiled. His heart was thundering in his chest. His cheeks still held a tint of red. He had only been in England for a week and already he had caught some disease - stammering? Was that really it? Matthew wondered if it was too late to change his name.

"Hi Gilbert." He said softly.

"Peter," Gilbert nodded at the boy who still snorted with laughter, and then at the black-haired boy "Jack."

"Jacques." He corrected.

"Well you're in this bloody nation, aren't you?" Gilbert sneered. "How old are you?"

"Eleven." Matthew said.

"Twelve."

Like his brother. The thought hurt.

"Know what a scrap is? Sounds like you're from America." Jack said.

Matthew shrugged. "A piece of food?"

"No. You're a riot, but no."

Peter butted in. "It's a _fight_!" Pronouncing it FOIGHT! He laughed. His laugh was snarky and bothered Matthew.

"Stick around if you want." Gilbert said, pushing his hair back with his fingers and licking his lips. A hound ready for the hunt. "I have _a booooneee_ to pick with some of these homos."

Matthew was suddenly very glad Gilbert didn't ask how he got to this country, or anything about his parents. He thought too soon.

"Live with your parents? Freshly moved?" Jack asked.

Gilbert was looking towards a dirt trail that slipped into the forest nook. Several figures appeared distantly, skipping or hopping around, hyped up.

"My dad." Matthew said.

"Where's your mum at?"

"Dead." Matthew said. He wasn't lying. His birth mother really was dead.

That shut them up quickly. The small talk was over.

"I asked 'cause if your mum found it what you were doing out here she'd go mental."

"M-m-m…"

Before Matthew could ask what "mental" meant, Gilbert and his two friends burst off at a run. Gilbert tackled the boy in the centre of the group approaching them. Hollers were thrown out into the mostly solemn forest.

"Make your mum forget you even exist!" Gilbert cried out.

The kid knocked him one in the stomach, sending Gilbert rolling backwards, then lunging forwards again for another attack.

Boys did this, didn't they? Matthew looked around for explanation, or help. What in the world did that kid do to deserve a punch to the side of the jaw? Matthew took a step back.

"Leave now and you're a coward." Peter's voice shot through his ear.

"But I was only meant to be out for a few minutes." He said, stammer-free. Great. If it was gone then how could he convince his dad that the had one? And that he couldn't go to school with these brawling little… little… uh… Matthew was at a loss for insults. He watched the squabble draw on. Drops of blood trickled down Gilbert's knuckles.

Peter poked him in the side with his elbow. "Doubt your dad'll give a damn! He'll say that this is good natured ol' rough housin', and you boy better learn how to do it yourself one day."

Matthew shook his head. His dad would never, in a million years, advise him to raise a fist to anyone.

"Want to be the school's very own queer?" Peter asked.

"No…"

That language had been prohibited at home. Arthur cursed like a sailor, but vehemently scolded anything that directly insulted someone's identity, as he put it. "You will not," Arthur said, his cheeks enflamed back at home, with Alfred and Matthew mutely staring at him, "And I repeat you will _not_ use that language while I am alive. Your 'retarded's and your 'fag's and whatever other bloody language you dare use… Oh you will regret it with an inch of your life. Do you understand?"

Alfred and Matthew nodded. It had been a small slip up. Alfred had come home, angry and heated at some kid who had stolen his plastic wristwatch, and called it a retarded thing that people would want that of all things. Arthur swept in like a hawk and sat them down.

"Other curses are expressions of emotions, boys," Arthur continued, now calmly. "I don't mind those as much. You insult people for what they do, not who they are. Do you understand this, too?"

Matthew caught himself nodding at his memory. He flushed when Jack gave him a _are you mad_ look. "Pay attention to Gilbert, you might learn a thing or two."

He ran.

. . .

"A stammer?"

Arthur turned away from his desk. Matthew had bits of twigs caught in the mousy curls of his hair, and a smear of dirt on his cheek. He looked miserable. Arthur curled his lips in and bit them.

"How bad?"

"Just started today."

"They'll give you hell about it at school." Arthur commented. Like Matthew needed a reminder.

Although, he was not prepared as to what kind of hell, exactly, would come raining down upon him.


	4. Real Smoke

_Well so apparently my characters are totally OOC?_

 _Uh...? Have you seen how many fanfics I've written? I think I understand these characters well enough to bend them around a little. Also, I have something called a "plot". Sorry it doesn't call for a grown up Matthew and Alfred in young bodies. I doubt Matthew would act the same way at 20 and at 11. Sorry it doesn't call for needless keseseseses, or Ves or LET ME A-KISS YOU OHONOHONHON. And if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry. Please try the next local story._

 _And also - how dare this story make you angry! Wow, how_ dare _writing get an emotional reaction out of you. Including anger. Including confusion._

 _Now, to use my final weapon: pathos. Starting this story is the only reason I haven't killed myself these past few days. So I literally do not care if this gets 0 reviews and negative 16 follows/favourites. I came back to this site to post this, because I wanted to post it. I also wanted a final farewell story to a fandom I spent so much time in. Review if you'd like, kind or otherwise, because I'm still writing._

short chapter. sorry

* * *

 **4**

 **Real Smoke**

It was Timothy Baker's fault.

Alfred was thirteen, finally, and he and Tim decided to head out to smoke. Alfred would be extensively ridiculed if he refused the offer. Francis would go apeshit if he caught the smell of smoke on him. Alfred, therefore, decided to take a couple puffs and wash it out by walking through something that smelt even worse. At least then he would have an excuse. A very unpleasant one, but one nonetheless.

Tim sat down on the concrete. The whoosh of the city rustled nearby, causing a stir of wind to tussle Tim's hair. He pulled out a pack from his pocket and tossed one to Alfred. Alfred caught it, easily, and his heart began an uneasy march.

"You chicken?"

"No…"

…

"Ok, hold it in." Tim said, staring at Alfred. Alfred's eyes watered.

He never wanted to do this. Ever, _ever_ again.

"Breathe out." Alfred sputtered. Gusts of cold smoke popped out of his mouth. He coughed, wheezing slightly.

Tim smirked. "Try again. You'll get used to it."

"Why?" Alfred managed to ask, somehow without sounding like a dying toad.

"It's _cool_." Tim said, like it was clearly the most obvious thing in the world. Alfred nodded mutely, rejecting the second offer. Alfred went home, deciding that maybe he should tell Francis straight up —

— and receive a cuff to the ear. It was gentle, it didn't hurt. But the shame carried in Francis' limp palm rocketed through him like a collision. Alfred felt tears prickle his eyes.

"He said it was cool."

"There's nothing 'cool' about it, Alfred." Francis said sternly. "Follow me."

He gestured for Alfred to follow up the stairs. They croaked with age. Alfred wondered if they had ever seen a different house, his fathers. Maybe they had been born here. All the chipped wallpaper and haphazard renovations spoke volumes. Words oozing from the sides of the walls like smoke.

Francis pointed at the ceiling.

"See?"

It was yellowed. With nicotine. The shadow of a past, burned on to their home. Francis stared at it, his fatherly-facade steadily slipping.

"We quit together, Arthur and I. It was hard and long. He quit drinking, too, and I quit something else. It was an exchange, a health exchange." He fell silent.

Alfred stared up at it. Wondering what other histories could be told by the wallpaper.


End file.
